


Houses of Worship

by jehanjoly (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Cynicism, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jehanjoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a stonecarver working in a cathedral in medieval France; Enjolras is a monk who takes an interest in his work. Vaguely inspired by Pillars of the Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Houses of Worship

Grantaire had a gift – a gift for taking shapeless, formless rock and using his mason’s tools to craft intricate tributes to the glory of God. It was a gift he discovered at an early age, as the adopted son of a stonemason who worked on the construction of a great cathedral, with their magnificent Gothic arches and luminous stained glass. As a boy, he accompanied his father to his worksite every day, learning from the master how to wield the tools of their trade. As Grantaire got older, and his stepfather began to lose his eyesight, he took over the task of carving statues, deftly chiseling the stone into the likenesses of various saints and biblical figures.

Yet despite the fact that Grantaire spent six days a week toiling in a house of worship, he himself did not believe in God.

His lack of belief stemmed from a tumultuous childhood – his father had been killed when Grantaire was five years old, leaving him in the care of his mother, a red-haired woman with piercing blue eyes. Her denunciations of the clergy in their village, whose treachery had led to her widowhood, led to accusations of witchcraft and ultimately, banishment from the village. Grantaire’s earliest memories were of a nomadic life, as they wandered from village to village, living off the generosity of others. He watched his beautiful mother degenerate into a bitter, half-starved wretch, the victim of a Church that wanted nothing but obedience.

What kind of God would let his mother suffer like this? Grantaire didn’t know – but he felt fairly certain he didn’t want to know this God, either.

When his stepfather came along, their lives improved – they moved into a stable home, with safety from dangers both natural and manmade – but Grantaire was remarkably jaded for one so young. He worked hard alongside his stepfather every day, but his nights were soon consumed by drinking and gambling and fighting. As he grew older, he also took various lovers – lovers he would meet for quick assignations in secluded corners of the village.

Grantaire worshipped pleasure, hedonism, vice – but most certainly he did not worship God.

Until he found God in the cathedral.

His God’s name was Enjolras, a denizen of the local monastery, a man his own age who had taken a keen interest in the construction of the new cathedral. Grantaire learned that he had only recently taken his vows – he was about the same age as Grantaire, which made him the youngest monk in his order by at least two decades.

Enjolras had taken to visiting the cathedral every morning, striding through the nave of the church, his blond curls escaping the hood of his robe. Grantaire would never fail to stop his work to watch this beautiful man as he came through, pausing here or there to speak to one of the workers. He found himself thinking of him constantly as he worked, as he drank, even as he fumbled in the darkness with a new lover – although they had never spoke.

He was thinking of Enjolras one particular morning, as he worked at chiseling the features of the statue of Christ that would adorn the altar. He was brushing away flecks of dust from the statue’s jawline when he heard a voice behind him.

“You have a remarkable talent,” came the voice.

Grantaire turned to see Enjolras standing behind him. “Th-thank you, brother,” he stammered.

“The way you have rendered our Lord – it is a tribute to his glory,” the young monk said. “Your faith must be quite strong.”

Grantaire swallowed hard. “My inspiration is certainly divine,” he said, staring at Enjolras’s strong features. “Or at least a manifestation of heaven on earth.”

Enjolras smiled. “Your talent is most certainly a gift from God, Monsieur—“

“Grantaire,” the artist answered. “And you are Brother Enjolras.”

The monk looked taken aback. “How did you know my name?”

Grantaire grinned, his blue eyes flashing. “You are—shall I say, distinctive? I do not see very many men our age joining this order. And none of your brothers take such an interest in our work.”

“Many of my brothers do not believe in this project,” Enjolras said. “They believe that God can be anywhere, in the darkest corners of the kingdom. But should we not pay tribute to him as best we can? This cathedral will live on long after you and I have achieved eternal life.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Perhaps you will attain your heavenly reward, Brother. I do not share your optimism about where I will end up when I depart this earth.”

The monk reached out and touched Grantaire’s arm. “You do not believe in salvation?”

Grantaire smiled wryly. “My art is my salvation. That and really good ale.” And you, he added silently.

“May I join you for an ale sometime?” Enjolras asked. “Perhaps I can convince you otherwise.”

“I have never known a monk to spend time in a tavern,” Grantaire said. He couldn’t help but to notice that Enjolras’s hand was still on his arm.

“Where better to find souls that need saving?” Enjolras said. “Let us meet tomorrow evening?” he asked.

“Yes, I would like that,”Grantaire said calmly – but he was already willing to give his soul over to this passionate savior.

**

None of the patrons even looked up when Enjolras entered the tavern the next evening, lowered his hood and shaking the misty rain off of his golden hair. Grantaire was already there, sitting at a table in the corner. He raised his tankard in a toast as Enjolras approached.

“Welcome, sir, to my house of worship,” Grantaire said, taking a long draw of his ale. “Join me in a toast,” he said, gesturing at the tavern owner to bring over another drink.

Enjolras took a seat on the bench across from him. “This is certainly not as glorious a setting as the cathedral,” he remarked.

“Certainly not,” said Grantaire. “But the food and the entertainment are markedly better.”

“You are far too young to be so bitter,” Enjolras said as his drink arrived.

“I come about my bitterness honestly, Brother,” he said.

“How is that?” Enjolras asked.

“My father was killed when I was very young. And we were cast out, like Adam and Eve were from paradise, and it almost destroyed my mother.” Grantaire took a long pull from his ale. “God abandoned us in our time of need, Brother. What cause do I have for joy?” Grantaire stared at Enjolras, his blue eyes flashing in the light from the fire.

“God has not abandoned you, Grantaire. He is within all of us. He is our companion in our times of need.”

Grantaire smirked. “I have other companions to take care of me in my time of need.”

Enjolras looked away. “I would not know anything about that,” he said.

“Have you not experienced the, uh—pleasures of the flesh?” Grantaire asked him. “I mean, certainly I know you take a vow of celibacy, but there are other ways to pleasure oneself—“

Enjolras lowered his eyes. “I have not. I have always concerned myself with pleasing God, not myself.”

“So you have never—never experienced—“Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how to say it to a man of the cloth.

“La petite mort? No, never,” Enjolras lifted his head and trained his gaze on Grantaire.

“And you have never wanted to?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Not until recently,” he exhaled.

Grantaire peered into his face. “Not until recently?” he repeated. “What changed?”

“I have been watching you for months now, working on your pieces, and I see how you – how you touch them,” Enjolras said haltingly. “It’s the way you caress their features as you work. It is as I would imagine you caressing—a—a lover.”

“And you would like to know what that feels like,” Grantaire said.

“I would,” Enjolras said quietly. “I have prayed about this for weeks, looking for an answer as to what to do – how I can stop this feeling. And no answer comes. God is testing me somehow – and I feel like I am failing.”

Grantaire reached across the table and took Enjolras’s hand in his. Gently he began tracing his hand with his thumb.

“I think there is only one thing to do,” Grantaire said. “Come with me,” he said, standing up from the table. The two men headed out of the tavern and into the misty wet evening, putting their hoods up against the rain.

Once they were outside, Grantaire took Enjolras’s hand and led him through the winding village streets, mostly deserted now, heading toward the cathedral site.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asked. “Not to the cathedral, Grantaire – I will not defile the house of our Lord.”

Grantaire stopped – that was exactly where he’d planned to take him. Instead, he looked around, and darted down an alley along the village’s wall.

“Here, this will do,” Grantaire said, pushing the monk up against the wall and kissing him long and hard. Enjolras responded by putting his arms around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him closer to him. They could feel the rain intensifying as they kissed hungrily, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths.

Finally, Grantaire pulled back for a moment to look at Enjolras.

“Do you want me to—“ he asked.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire dropped to his knees like a penitent in front of Enjolras, ignoring the mud beneath his feet. He ran his hands up under Enjolras’s cowl, feeling his strong legs and his firm buttocks. He lifted the fabric to reveal Enjolras’s cock, already hard. Grantaire gripped Enjolras’s penis with his left hand and bent to trace its tip with his tongue, causing Enjolras to moan in pleasure. Grantaire moved slowly, gradually taking more and more of Enjolras’s length into his mouth. Enjolras was gripping the sides of his cowl as Grantaire worked, trying not to cry out as he writhed against the wall.

He came hard in Grantaire’s mouth, with two hard thrusts. Grantaire swallowed hard and looked up at Enjolras.

His eyes were closed and his head was thrown back, giving him the look of a saint in ecstasy.

**

They both knew this was not going to be a love story documented in ballads and poetry — they knew it as soon as Grantaire rose to his feet to look at Enjolras that night. They also knew that Enjolras’s first love was God, knew that after that night he would return to his order and his vow of celibacy.

After that night Enjolras stopped visiting the cathedral, instead burying himself in Scripture study and prayer. He confessed his sin to the abbot, who nodded understandingly and gave him his penance – a cilice that he would wear on his thigh as a form of atonement.

Grantaire, for his part, threw himself into his work, with a burst of inspiration he had never felt before. Was it divine inspiration? He wasn’t sure, unless Enjolras counted as a divinity. But he found himself spending less time in the tavern and more time devoting himself to his craft.

When he finished the statue of Jesus, however, there was no mistaking its resemblance to the young monk.

And when the cathedral was consecrated, and the villagers gathered in front of the altar for Mass, Grantaire knelt reverently with his fellow parishoners – worshipping not Enjolras’s God, but Enjolras himself.

And for Grantaire, it was finally enough.


End file.
